


made from silver

by Anniely



Series: REBOOT [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Brainwashing, F/F, Family, Gen, Pancakes, Shaw as Bucky AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 16:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anniely/pseuds/Anniely
Summary: The social rehabilitation of a brainwashed assassin -- with the help of a dog, two other former assassins, a reclusive, genius billionaire hacker, chocolate chip pancakes and lots of not-quite-hugging.





	made from silver

There is a subway station hidden behind a vending machine somewhere in Chinatown.

 

It feels like something is slotting into place, neatly fitting back to where it belongs, when the candy machine, full of M&Ms, Peanut Butter Cups and Twizzlers, swings back to reveal a long, low room, filled with warm yellow light and the constant humming of electrical equipment.

 

'Home, sweet home,' Root says, and moves into the open space without looking back, as if she knows that she will follow (and she does; it feels like she's magnetized).

 

Root smiles at her, before disappearing into a silver subway car. It makes something inside of her seize, for a moment, not being able to see Root; she can only make out vague forms standing in front of illuminated computer screens.

 

Soft voices filter out of the car, Root's and two male voices. There's a surprised _What?_.

 

The vending machine has closed again behind her and she feels tense and trapped. She still doesn't know brought her to Root. She was a shard of memory, just a feeling really, and she held on to it like a found again child holding on to their mother.

 

Something moves across the tiled floor, accompanied by a clicking sound, and when she looks down there is a dog butting his head excitedly against her legs, its tail wagging as it turns around her in circles.

 

If she tries really hard, until there's a throbbing in the back of her head, she can almost fit him into the fuzzy, two-and-a-half memories she calls her own.

 

'Hello,' she says and crouches down.

 

She gets a tongue to the face in return, warm and slobbery; it's nice, though. No one but Root has ever been happy about her mere presence (not that she could remember if it were different).

 

The dog's head whips around toward the subway car, but he stays at her side. When she lifts her head, Root is standing three steps away from her, flanked by a smaller, bookish kind of man with glasses and a tall, gray-haired one.

 

'Shaw?' the silver-haired man asks, incredulous.

 

It sounds more like _Welcome back_ , but everything about him screams _predator_.

 

She feels herself shift into a defensive stance (whether her body is trying to protect or betray her, she doesn't know), her hand still buried in the dog's soft fur clenching tighter. He whines, a high, distressed sound.

 

'Kalm, Bear,' the man says, and the dog relaxes against her side.

 

There are two guns and a knife hidden by his pristine black suit and her mind calculates the distance between them and all the ways in which she could incapacitate him until she is dizzy.

 

She watches, warily, mind still going a mile a minute, as Root comes slowly closer, and then sits down cross-legged in front of her. The dog pushes his wet nose into her hand in greeting.

 

'They're friends,' Root says, but seems to hesitate for a tiny moment before the last word.

 

'You don't sound so sure,' she says, itching to put herself between Root and the men.

 

Root smiles and puts her hand over hers on the dog's head (Root's not holding, just covering her hand with her long fingers; it's alright, this way).

 

'I did try to shoot them. Both of them,' she admits, leaning forward as if telling a secret, 'At separate occasions.'

 

'Do you often make friends that way?'

 

'Only the important ones,' Root says.

 

The smaller of the two men is smiling at her (people don't smile at her; she doesn't understand. Dogs are happy about everyone who pays them attention, but why are these people happy to see her? What could she possible have done to make them happy to see her? And what if she isn't able to do it again?).

 

'It is simply wonderful to see you again and healthy, Miss Shaw,' he says.

 

She turns around, startled that she didn't hear anyone approach. There's no one behind her.

 

'I told you, Harry,' Root says and pats her knee. 'Hard reset.'

 

It feels too much (and not enough), these people, happy to see her, giving her names as if she is someone worth remembering.

 

As if she is someone.

 

It feels like she is ending.

 

She must have missed a tracker, or a tiny bomb implanted somewhere she can't reach, she can't feel, can't know. There's an ache in her chest, right under the metal plates

 

She doesn't remember almost dying, only waking up, but this, this is what it must have felt like: Waves inside your head, drowning you from the inside and all you can do is watch.

 

It takes her far too long to realize that she isn't ending; she's beginning.

 

She drifts, until she hears Root say _Sameen_ softly, again and again. The name brings her back to the subway station, but it also makes the noise in her head, white and distant like soft snow, louder and louder, slowly but surely trying to tear her head apart from the inside.

 

She presses her hands to her ears.

 

'I don't … Not Sameen. Can you not … call me that? Please. I don't know who that is.'

 

Root, whose name lives in her scattered memories between the picture of the dog at her side and the smell of pancakes, looks sad, for a tiny moment, but then nods.

 

'The other thing, that – that was alright.'

 

'Shaw?'

 

She feels the name on her tongue, waits for her mind to rebel. Her thoughts stay quiet, though, and something inside her preens.

 

She has a name; she _chose_ her name.

 

She nods.

 

'Shaw it is, then,' Root says.

 

It feels like proof: I have a name; I am; I _exist_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It feels strange, walking through the city in the middle of these people.

 

Roots at her side, her arm brushing Shaw's with every step they take. Finch ('You don't look like a Harry,' she had said, and felt strange for voicing an opinion, still waiting to be punished for speaking, but he had only smiled at her and explained that Harry was Root's very own, special brand of affection) walking in front of them, the dog trotting at his side and John behind them (she thought it would make her uncomfortable, to have him out of her sight because he still feels dangerous, but so does Root, like a knife that only becomes dangerous in the wrong hands); she doesn't mind him having her back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The safe house is really more of a safe apartment.

 

Shaw walks inside, the others behind her, and when the door closes behind Finch it feels as if something inside of her has become unstuck.

 

She scouts the place, its layout and the way the sun shining through the big windows (she can feel a rifle in her hands and pulls the curtains shut) draws shadow on the fluffy-looking carpet in front of the fireplace, how sounds echo between the exposed brick walls.

 

Root and Finch sit down on the big couch together and immediately start tapping around on their phone and computer, while John disappears into the kitchen and Shaw follows with Bear, like two cats, lured in by clattering and interesting smells.

 

John is taking things out of a big, shiny silver fridge and putting them on the counter along with things from the cupboard, a big bowl and a whisk (there is a knife block right behind John, just next to the stove, and she thinks she should feel less calm than she is, having someone she doesn't know – anymore? yet? again? – that close to too many weapons. For some reason, her hands are steady and her heartbeat calm).

She leans on the counter, watching as John measures and whisks and folds in chocolate chips, while fending of Bear with a small smile on his face.

 

The batter makes a soft sizzling sound when it finally hits the hot griddle and suddenly everything smells like warm sugar.

 

Shaw watches John expertly flip pancake after pancake, before she drags the bar chair over to get a closer look. It seems a little bit like magic to her, how he used things (she can't name even half of the ingredients he used) to make something entirely new. She hopes that she will get the chance to begin something, make something new, at some point, to make up for all the things that she has ended.

 

'Can you take these outside?' John asks and hands her a stack of warm plates and some cutlery.

 

It seems like a victory, when she doesn't flinch at the feeling of John's fingers against hers, when she doesn't want to the take any of the cutlery and fling it at the soft parts of his body.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The table is large enough that they all have plenty of room for themselves, but they sit close anyway, sharing food and room.

 

She has held on so tightly to the few things that were her own, but here it might not be so bad to share them. And this must be what freedom feels like, tastes like. Warmth and chocolate, Root's hand on her knee (an anchor, not a restriction).

 

 

* * *

 

 

(It's a terribly stressful business, she finds the next morning, to have to be anything at all. Stressful and confusing.

 

She manages to pick blue socks, because the color reminds her of an ocean she can't remember actually ever having been to, but choosing a whole outfit seems, at the same time, like a small miracle – to be allowed, to have a choice – and a useless waste of time.

 

Root helps her pick the rest of her clothes; her hands are sure and gentle when they pull the black t-shirt over Shaw's head. Shaw smiles at her and when Root returns it, it feels like pancakes all over again.

 

She's not a person, not a whole one, yet; but there are people who make pancakes for her, give her a place to stay, and choose clothes for her that she feels comfortable in.

 

She's not a person, not a whole one, yet; but she's real.)

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's short, but I have always liked these guys as a family ensemble.
> 
> I might also have a third part planned ...


End file.
